


Survival Instinct

by TheDamnRiddler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, POV Peter Hale, The Hale Fire, fire bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/pseuds/TheDamnRiddler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter wakens to his home on fire. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(day of the Hale fire)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival Instinct

He only rouses when the screaming starts.

Peter jackknifes out of his bed, gasping and disoriented as he tries to blink away the sleep from his eyes. He's never been good when he first wakes; has always needed at least three cups of coffee and another nap before his brilliance really shines. But he distantly thinks that it shouldn't be taking him this long to shake the blurriness from his vision.

Then he coughs and he realizes that his room is full of smoke. His body is thrumming, already bent on survival with claws out and teeth bared. But there's no enemy here. And then he can hear them again, screaming--

"Get your sister and go out through the cellar!"

"Dad!"

"Go! Sam! Sammy go-- _PETER_!"

Peter brings his arm up to his mouth and nose, squinting through the heavy smoke and darts to his door--snapping his hand back when it sizzles against the brass knob. The skin over his palm is blistered and is sluggish in healing and Peter just stares at it because he's still not quite sure what's going on.

There's a loud crash from downstairs and someone--his niece, his little six year old niece is _screeching_ and the second time he reaches for the doorknob, he doesn't feel anything. He just jerks the door wide and bolts through, out into the hall; skids to a stop at the top of the stairs to stare because everything is on fire.

Everything is on fire.

_Fire_. Smoke, the acrid burn of his eyes, the rush of heat--the house is on fire. And that sudden realization seems to zap through him, through his blood; he can hear wood splintered, he can hear the fire _roaring_ (how can it be so loud), he can hear the floor boards beneath him shifting and groaning--

Peter gasps suddenly for breath that will not come. His lungs won't work and he's dizzy and--and there's someone on the ground on fire.

He gapes, he can't not. He stares and stares because someone is dead outside of his sisters' room and he can't fucking tell who it is. Peter groans, smelling burnt meat and hearing the house crack and break around him and his stomach churns because he _doesn't know who the fuck that is_.

Something above him shudders--the roof?! And a beam just drops and swings down and out and Peter is moving down the stairs, stumbling back as he watches part of the damn house collapse.

"That's Derek's room," he catches himself muttering. Derek's room just fell apart and he can see outside now, can see how tall the flames are as they feed and grow and _grow_.

Peter wants to live.

He crouches down, one hand steadying himself on the handrail of the staircase as the thought takes him over. He wants to live. He doesn't want to burn to death here. He doesn't want to be identified by his fucking teeth and he belatedly realizes that that won't happen because they don't go to the damned dentist--

He trips the rest of the way downstairs, his throat stuttering and raw and his eyes streaming with pain. There's fire down here too, licking up the walls and clawing across the ceiling and blocking the doorway.

Cellar. He can get out through the cellar.

Peter's bare feet are blistering and catching broken glass and sharp shards of what he distantly recognizes is his grandmother's favorite vase that's been shattered on the floor (he'll pick it up later even though he's always hated it). And he passes someone--can't tell who it is and doesn't care because they aren't moving anymore.

He wants to live so badly.

The door to the basement is open and wide and he pushes past a roaring wall of fire to get to it, rushing down the steps and trying to keep his feet steady.

He can hear them now. His younger nephews and a cousin. Peter squints through the brilliant light, calling them, coughing and trying to blink back smoke from his eyes. Where's the rest of his family?

The two boys are shrieking, both reaching up on their tip toes (like they do when they're reaching for the cookie jar on the kitchen counter--Peter never tells on them) and clawing at the iron bars. He wants to grab them and hold them and also yell at them because you have to _lift_ and _then_ pull the fucking latch--

And then the ceiling collapses. Or the floor, really.

His cousin goes down with a support beam and a shower of flaming linoleum covering him from view. His nephews are making noises he's never heard before and the fire is burning along his right leg and arm, but he reaches anyway because he _can't not_ and he snags one of them and jerks him back. It's the littlest one--the boy looks at him and for a second Peter doesn't understand why the kid is screaming, but then he sees the large chunk of wood sticking out of his skinny little arm.

Peter drags him (he can't save the other one, he can't, HE CAN'T) toward the cellar doors; toward the secret tunnel Peter's father had insisted on because he was a paranoid old fart. His ears are ringing as he races through the dark and damp; feet slapping over mold and puddles of stale rain water. The air is cooler down here, fresher, and he breaks into a run, letting go of the tiny hand in his own.

These gates aren't stuck like the bars across the window must have been. One solid kick and they clash open and Peter turns, reaching a hand out to--to no one. His nephew isn't there.

_He wants to live_.

Peter gapes soundlessly, working his mouth and trying to form a name, trying to fucking _think_. The boy must have run back? Tried to go after his brother who was no doubt dead by now. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ son of a bitch!

He wants to go back for him. He does. But his legs won't cooperate. Peter lurches forward, grabs onto the gate for support as his entire body buckles.

There are no more screams.

Peter collapses onto the ground and turns, dragging himself away, further from the sharp scent of fire and blood and burnt. He's wheezing; voice raw and throat blistered and bleeding. He flops onto his back and barely holds back his cry of pain. It's suddenly all he knows; all encompassing and leeching any strength his adrenaline brought him.

He lays there, trying to gasp clean air, listening to his home burn, listening to his _family_ burn.

And he screams now, not because of the pain, but because he doesn't really want to live anymore.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the episode where Peter shared his memories with Scott and noticed the two people in the background reaching out of the iron bars were kids. I had feels.


End file.
